


a prayer for which no words exist

by myownremedy



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Brokeback Mountain Inspired, Camping, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownremedy/pseuds/myownremedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He knows Eduardo will be puttering around in camp, trying and perhaps succeeding to make breakfast, his shirt sleeves rolled up halfway up his forearms and his smile easy and warm, eyes bright.</i><br/>Mark does not like to look at him for too long, likes to focus on the ground or the green of the trees, but he always comes back to the warmth of Eduardo’s smile, lets his eyes linger on the curve of Eduardo’s mouth before he looks away guiltily.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Brokeback mountain-inspired AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a prayer for which no words exist

**Author's Note:**

> For [Anita](http://dontcallmemudblood.tumblr.com/).  
> A brokeback mountain au very inspired by [this](https://getintherobot.tumblr.com/post/33819989565/sorry-about-the-blood-in-your-mouth) graphic floating around and the fact that I just finished rereading Cold Mountain.  
> Unbeta'd, so sorry. Written in about 3 hours so this is rushed, again, my apologies. I also listened to The Wings on repeat while writing this aha. Hopefully this won't make anyone cry because it's a happy ending woo.  
> Disclaimer: y'all gay, y'all fictional, I own none of the social network or brokeback mountain, no copyright infringement intended, etc.  
> Title and quote from Richard Siken's book _Crush_.  
>  edit (4-13-15): this is a transformative work. I make no money off of it. I do not own what inspired this work (Brokeback Mountain, The Social Network), but I do own this work itself and hold full copyright over it. Thank you.

_“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”_

– Richard Siken, _Crush_

 

 

The dawn breaks here like a rush, flooding over the trees and shattering the sky. He is still surprised by it, how it seems to take forever and how the darkness stretches on, and then dawn appears almost too quickly, changing the landscape in an instant.

He has been unable to sleep, taking solace in the darkness and how everything, once strange from the lack of light, becomes familiar and softer in the absence of light, as welcome and dear to him as any friends.

But dawn breaks, and changes that. Mark shifts, watching as the sheep – his wards – are illuminated. His fingers are numb from being curled around a rifle and his lower half is asleep, chilled by the dank and the damp and from inactivity.

He knows Eduardo will be puttering around in camp, trying and perhaps succeeding to make breakfast, his shirt sleeves rolled up halfway up his forearms and his smile easy and warm, eyes bright.

Mark does not like to look at him for too long, likes to focus on the ground or the green of the trees, but he always comes back to the warmth of Eduardo’s smile, lets his eyes linger on the curve of Eduardo’s mouth before he looks away guiltily.

 

It takes Mark time to wake up fully, though he had not slept; he focuses on how light floods the slopes of the mountain and tries to wiggle his toes, failing until he manually stretched out his legs, feeling foolish that he can move his arms but not his legs. When feeling comes back, it is harsh and primitive and he twitches uncomfortably but forces himself on his horse. The horse knows where they are off to, knows grain and a measure of hay waits for him at base camp and so Mark does not have to guide him there, has only to hold on and sway in the saddle, let his eyes catch on the ground at random moments and see things in the thick of life. There are flowers thick and heavy with pollen and bees fat on their petals, a frenzy of activity that makes him feel inadequate somehow, though he was steadfast at his post all night, going above and beyond the job.

He reaches camp on this line of thought, mouth turned down like a permanent crease, and he nods at Eduardo who looks up and smiles at him, porridge heating over the fire he has built.

Mark is not allowed a fire, not up there with the sheep – an absurd rule, but he knows it will be visible from the main ranch so he obeys, though Eduardo frets over him and advises him to blanket his horse; they are high enough up that it still frosts over night, even in the thick of summer and snow has not yet left the tallest peak of the sway-backed mountain.

“Good Morning,” Eduardo tells him and Mark grunts at him, swings off his horse and stumbles over to the fire, holding his cracked hands out to it and sighing a little in it’s warmth.

Mornings are always like this; they do not talk much, though Eduardo smiles at Mark the entire time he is there, spoons porridge into a bowl and presses it into Mark’s shaky hands, pretending not to notice Mark flinching from contact, pretending not to notice that Mark will not meet his eyes.

But this time Eduardo follows him to the fire and takes Mark’s hands in his, smoothing the roughness of his skin with his own fingers.

“Your hands are so cold,” Eduardo says softly, inanely.

Mark, startled, gapes at him, notices how warm and brown Eduardo’s eyes are; they are open and good natured like those on a deer, gentle and unassuming.

“It was cold last night,” Mark says dumbly; he is not fond of speaking, not good with words (or people), but Eduardo makes his tongue feel thicker than usual. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Eduardo nods; silence stretches thick between them and Mark thinks, _that’s that_ but Eduardo doesn’t let go of his hands.

“Here,” Eduardo says, turning away to make Mark a bowl of porridge and Mark busies himself with tugging his hat further down over his ears, feels his blush paint his neck and cheeks with red and knows it is obvious, tries very hard not to care.

Mark slinks away to eat his porridge, leans against a tree and tucks neatly into it, feeling Eduardo’s eyes on him and trying to ignore them.

“Why don’t you sleep down here tonight?” Eduardo asks suddenly and Mark inhales, feels his lungs flood with air that he doesn’t quite have room for.

“I – I can’t,” the words are rushed enough that he feels like he has to make an explanation. “The flock. There were wolves last night – I can’t leave the sheep.”

“Oh,” Eduardo says, agreeably. Mark sneaks a look at him, sees he’s still smiling but his eyes are dark and don’t quite match up. Mark looks away.

 

When Mark makes to head back up, mounting his horse wearily, Eduardo catches him by resting a hand on his knee . Mark stills immediately like a caught deer and wonders if Eduardo notices, if he knows it’s because Mark can feel his body heat and not because Mark has a supposed aversion to touch.

“Take this,” Eduardo says, pressing his jacket into Mark’s hands. It’s thick and black, lined with black fleece and smells of Eduardo, like citrus and fresh grass.

“What about you?” Mark says, meaning it to be a refusal but instead Eduardo smiles and folds it onto Mark’s arm.

“I have the fire. I’ll be fine.”

He clucks to Mark’s horse before Mark can say anything and the horse obeys, making Mark grip the reins with one hand and clutch Eduardo’s fleecy jacket to his chest in the other.

 

He does not return to camp for dinner, stays with the sheep and huddles outside of his tent. It does not occur to him that he’s avoiding Eduardo; he does not think about it and does not put on the jacket, instead busies himself with the sheep and the wolves.

 Solidarity makes the hours pass quickly; he watches the light play over the swaybacked mountain, watches the hawks circle and dive, sees the sheep mill in their meadow and wonders if they are troubled with their lot in life, so defenseless against the wolves that he tries to keep away.

Light fades without him realizing it and the temperature drops; he blankets his horse and drags his bedroll to the front of the tent so he can look out at the valley, see the foreboding shapes of the pine trees in the distance. Eduardo’s jacket sits heavy in his lap and soon his breath comes out in pale plumes, visible before his eyes. He shivers, crosses his arms across his chest and balls his fists in his armpits to keep warm; the shotgun lies across his thighs, atop Eduardo’s jacket and within easy reach.

When the stars peek out Mark can resist no longer; he draws Eduardo’s jacket on slowly, one arm at a time, and fumbles with the buttons. His fingers shake and he is light-headed from Eduardo’s scent but he does feel warmer, feels guilty, feels like he doesn’t deserve it and shouldn’t need it.

The moon is fat in the sky, heavy like the pollen-laden flowers, swollen with possibilities. Mark turns his back on it, lies on his side and feels a heaviness in his belly and groin, a heaviness he tries to ignore.

He feigns sleep, hopes it will come eventually; instead he inhales deeply and tries not to think of Eduardo.

This is the first night he has not slept with the shotgun in his hands; instead it lies at the front of the tent, metal cold in the frigid night air. There is no place for it in the tent, not when Mark is intent on being warm, burrowing into his bedroll fully clothed.

He hears the wolves howl and the frightened bleating of the sheep and struggles out of his tent, grips the gun and fires off into the sky just to scare the wolves away. He can see them, can smell them and knows he cannot sleep tonight, thinks they will wait until he drifts off and then steal away the newborn lambs.

He shucks off Eduardo’s jacket and takes up his post, cradling the shotgun in his rough hands, and waits.

 

 Mark is already on his horse by dawn, having resorted to patrolling during the night and he is grateful that his horse knows the way, tries and fails not to slump over its withers like the poorest rider there is. He arrives too early for breakfast to be ready, thinks his journey there is simultaneously too quick and too long, and when he half falls off his horse, Eduardo appears with his hair sticking up and his face soft from sleep.

“You’re not wearing the jacket,” is all he says, and Mark peers at him blearily.

“It was too warm.”

 

Eduardo builds up the fire and readies the breakfast and Mark stands where he always does, hands tucked into his pockets and hat pulled down low over his head. He is not patient but nor is anything urgent except for the exhaustion beating slowly in his head, dull like a headache, so he does not hurry Eduardo, does not offer to help; Eduardo has his duties and Mark has his, and that’s how it works.

It takes him by surprise, though, when Eduardo rounds the back of him and stands behind him, resting his chin on Mark’s shoulder.

“You're sleeping on your feet like a horse,” his chest is against Mark’s back and Mark can feel more than hear the rumble of his voice.

Mark does not move away, feels himself relax into the warmth of Eduardo’s body and can only nod. “Yes.”

 

The porridge doesn’t really have a taste but Mark eats it anyway, squatting down by the fire and spooning his breakfast into his mouth. Eduardo watches him but says nothing and Mark feels that heaviness again, like the heaviness of spring but it’s between them. He looks away.

“Don’t go,” Eduardo says suddenly. “Stay here. Rest.”

“I can’t,” Mark says; it’s a repeat of yesterday. “The wolves were restless last night. I’ve got to tend to the sheep.”

“Then at least come to dinner this time,” Eduardo’s mouth twists and Mark flushes dull red, looks at him in shame.

“Wardo,” he mutters. “I’m…”

“You’re wearing yourself out,” Eduardo says quietly, like he’s offended or disappointed, maybe both. “Not eating, not sleeping. At least do one, Mark.”

Mark mounts up and rides away instead of answering, instead of facing the kind disapproval on Eduardo’s face.

 

The hours stretch this time and nothing can distract him; instead it makes him uncomfortable, seeing how everything is the slow and inevitable build up of time. Some would say it’s God’s hand and some would say it’s science, but the trees were fruiting and the bees were busy in their hives; the lambs unsteady still on their legs and the rams protective of their ewes. It was how it always was, how it always will be and it made Mark uncomfortable, seeing what was natural and what he did not think he could belong too.

Eduardo’s jacket lies abandoned in his tent and he looks at it like it will throttle him, cups the butt of the rifle in his hand. The wolves have given up, he thinks; he cannot smell their musk or hear them.

It is funny, because he thinks they speak to each other more than he speaks to Eduardo and that frustrates him, makes him pace in the long summer grass and shred the heavy head of wheat and barley whenever he happens upon them.

He comes across two rams rutting though it is neither season nor effective and turns away in shock and shame, tries to clear it from his mind. Unbidden, Eduardo’s easy smile and tanned forearms come into his mind.

 

The sun sinks, then sets completely and Mark shifts his attention to the small glow on a lower ridge that is the base camp and the fire, wonders if Eduardo knows where his camp is, wonders if Eduardo even looks for him. It’s time to head down for dinner but Mark cannot make up his mind; he shifts from foot to foot and hates that he is indecisive, looks from the rifle to Eduardo’s jacket and back again.

His horse makes the decision for him, plodding over to him and shoving him in the chest with its muzzle, impatient for its measure of evening grain.

Mark dons Eduardo’s jacket, feels it settle on his shoulders heavy and over-large and mounts up, guides the horse forward with his knees and tries to pick out the path by starlight alone. The moon is clouded over tonight and the darkness is heavier, the shapes of the trees unfamiliar. Mark feels Brokeback Mountain looming at his back and wants to twist around to look at it but knows he will be unable to make out its swaybacked shape in the darkness.

When he arrives at camp Eduardo is slouched in front of the fire, clearly glum, a portion of dinner untouched. Mark is touched by the scene, reins his horse in and regards it for a moment, gaze lingering first on the food – for him? – and then on the long, lean figure of Eduardo, sprawling ungainly in the dirt.

“Eduardo,” he says softly, nudging the horse with his heels and Eduardo starts and looks at him, watches him dismount and untack his horse, scrambles to get the grain and heat up Mark’s now-cold dinner.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Eduardo admits and his words are shaky and fragile in the cold night air.

 

Mark scrapes at the beans and rice with the fork, slouching across from Eduardo. Shadows dance across the other man’s face but Mark knows he is staring at him and resolutely does not look back, concentrates on his food – the first food of substance he’s had in two days now.

“Slow down,” Eduardo says finally. “You’ll make yourself sick. I can make you some more, too.”

“No,” Mark says. “I – no. Thank you.”

They lapse into silence. Eduardo has retrieved a bottle of liquor from his tent and offers it to Mark. It tastes and feels like fire and Mark smiles down at it.

“This is what you need up there,” Eduardo says and Mark nods, returns the bottle to him and tries not to dwell on their fingers touching.

He’s still wearing Eduardo’s jacket and he knows that, thinks perhaps Eduardo is as hyperaware of it as Mark is, but the silence stretches thick between them until Mark starts back over to his horse.

“No,” Eduardo says. “Stay.”

It’s the third time he’s said it, and this time, Mark obeys.

 

Mark stretches out in front of the fire and Eduardo prepares for bed. Mark doesn’t watch him, keeps his eyes fixed on the stars and thinks how odd it is to hear the sounds of someone else’s nighttime routine. It’s almost calming, because Eduardo putters around like normal, banking the fire and cleaning the pots and brushing his teeth, checking over both horses and running practiced hands over their legs and backs to reassure himself that all is well.

Mark shifts his attention to the dark smudge that is the ridge he usually camps on, thinks of the lonely sheep and the hungry wolves and feels guilt that is blanketed and overlaid by the alcohol he drank earlier tonight.

He does not regret taking this chance to rest but as Eduardo murmurs “Goodnight,” and Mark hears him unbutton his shirt in his own tent, he feels the heaviness of what he wants, of it all resting on him and thinks that if he is going to shirk his responsibilities, even for one night, he should do it for the reason he came down here for.

He cannot work up his courage and instead lies beside the fire for sometime, listening to the horse’s slow, heavy breathing, ears pricked for the slightest sound from Eduardo, who is utterly silent.

Intution tells Mark that Eduardo isn’t sleeping either; no sleeping person is that silent.

Mark sneaks a look, sees the tense lines of Eduardo’s body through the gap in the tent opening and looks away again. He’s still wearing Eduardo’s jacket. It’s suffocating him.

Mark takes it off, feels the abrupt chill of night that the fire has yet to chase away and fumbles for his rifle, expecting it to be nearby; instead it’s by his horse and he grasps his hat instead, stuffs it on his head and gets up, moving slowly towards Eduardo’s tent.

He’s half-asleep but has been for days and this is like a dream; Eduardo sits up when Mark hovers outside of the tent flap and then Mark crouches and takes off his hat, cradling it against his chest and looking away. Eduardo is bare chested and Mark is unnerved by the sudden thrill of heat this sight sends through him.

“Mark,” Eduardo murmurs, leaning forward and wrapping a hand around Mark’s wrist, tugging him into the tent. “Mark.”

“Wardo, I…” Mark says in a dry whisper, throat as rough and raw as his hands and Eduardo shushes him, runs his fingers through Mark’s curls.

“Is this what you want?” Eduardo asks, so sweet, his eyes huge in the half-light and Mark nods, trembling.

Their first kiss is gentle, Eduardo pressing his lips chastely to Mark’s and Mark’s heart stumbles, fast and uncoordinated.

“Oh,” he gasps. “I’m – I’m sorry.”

“No,” Eduardo tells him. “It’s alright. It’s alright. Lie back.”

Mark obeys, head resting on Eduardo’s chest, but his hands swim Eduardo’s body, exploring his narrow torso, his muscular neck and his angular face.

“Mark,” Eduardo says, rolling so he’s on top of Mark, kissing him softly. “Mark.”

They blur together, hotter than the fire, shrouded even from the stars. Mark thinks of nothing at all.

 

The next morning, he comes too with Eduardo draping his jacket over Mark’s shoulders, like a blanket. Mark does not protest, merely clutches it to him and returns to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [tumblr!](http://marnz.tumblr.com/) prompts welcome.


End file.
